Spoiler warning: Spoilers for events through Season 5, Episode 14 (My Bloody Valentine)
Warnings: non-consensual sexual touching/molestation, reference to child abuse, extremely coarse language
Genre: slash (male/male); suspense fic
Author note: I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.
Disclaimer: All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.
The demon slowly pulls away from Castiel, maneuvering so that the angel's body partially blocks it from the shotgun tracking its every move. "That's a strange thing to call me," it sneers. "Anyone can see I'm a man," it rezips its fly with an insolent flourish, "—much more than this creampuff you're trying to claim."
"Cut the bullshit, Meg," snarls Dean. "I recognized your skeezy stench the moment we rolled into town." His voice drops. "You okay, Cas?"
"I'm fine, De—" He's interrupted by Meg grabbing his hair and smashing his head against the wall again.
"Oops, sorry, out of luck, loverboy. Your angel seems to have a headache tonight."
The shotgun goes off with a roar, and Meg falls back, crying out as rock salt pellets riddle her host's torso. "That stings, you little shit!"
She flings up her host's hand, and Dean goes flying across the room. Instead of slamming against the wall, he twists, kicking off the wall and rolling to his knees. He fires off another burst from the shotgun, sending the demon spinning away from Castiel. "If you think that stings, you sleazy skankbucket, try a taste of this! Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio—"
Meg rushes at Dean, catching him as he reloads and throwing him against the wall, this time pinning him in place with a curse. She hits him across the jaw and snatches the shotgun away, then punches him hard in the solar plexus, sending the air whooshing out of his lungs. "There you go, smart guy. You just wait there quietly and watch while I have my way with your little angel."
"Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."
Meg whirls around, coughing up small puffs of black smoke. "How the—where—?" Raising the shotgun to her host's shoulder, the demon fires off a blast at the ventilation shaft. The protective grill shatters, and the scent of electrical burning wafts into the room as the voice falls silent.
"Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te!"
Meg shoots again, this time at the floor level cold air return vent, and the exorcism chant cuts off once more.
"Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare!"
The demon howls, and staggers to the wall where Dean is gasping for breath. Grabbing him by the hair, she shoves the shotgun barrel in his mouth. "I know you're there, Sam Winchester, I recognize your stupid voice! Give yourself up right now, or you're gonna find out how badly rock salt pellets can scramble your brother's brain."
At that moment, Sam comes rushing into the room, a blur of motion as he flings the contents of a bucket full in the demon's face. Meg chokes, in momentary shock as Sam snatches the shotgun and pulls Dean away from the wall, shoving him at Castiel. Sam turns and draws Ruby's knife, keeping his eyes on the demon while backing toward his brother and the angel.
Meg's host coughs up the last of the water. "Seriously?" it gasps. "That's not even holy water! Hate to tell you, Dorothy, but I'm not the Wicked Witch of the West. Not melting, see?"
"You may not be," Sam's voice reverberates with triumph, "but those are."
Meg whirls around. The angel-trap blood sigils are trickling rivulets of red down the wall, distorting and breaking the lines. She turns back just as Sam slices into his arm with Ruby's knife and sends his blood spraying onto the bloodiron cuffs around Castiel's wrists.
The cuffs fall apart with a dull clang, accompanied by a muffled whoosh of air, as if giant wings had just snapped open. Castiel shakes his coats off his left arm and advances on Meg's host, left hand held up with fingers spread wide. "Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine."
Sam's pre-recorded voice joins in from another location in the ventilation shaft. "Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."
The demon screams in fury, a column of black smoke erupting from her host's mouth and swirling away through one of the broken windows. Her host falls to the ground, groaning.
Castiel stands in place, murmuring the last line of the exorcism. "Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris, te rogamus, audi nos."
Billy pushes himself to his feet, making a show of swaying in place. "Thank God for you guys!" he sobs. "Thank God you saved me! I thought I was a goner with that crazy bitch inside—"
Castiel makes a sharp gesture behind his back, and Ruby's knife flies out of Sam's hand into his own. With smooth, balletic grace, he strides up and buries the knife in Billy's heart.
Everyone in the room freezes in place, including Billy, his eyes wide and shocked as blood wells up in his mouth.
"Remember this," Castiel whispers. "Remember an angel's wrath as you burn in Hell." He withdraws the knife, and Billy tumbles to the floor, dead.
Several seconds pass in silence until Sam clears his throat. "Uh, Cas?"
Castiel turns to face him, his expression calm as always. "Yes, Sam?"
"I thought we exorcised Meg, um, successfully."
"You did. Excellent work, both of you."
"Yeah, thanks," Sam stammers. "But this guy—this host—wasn't he an innocent victim?"
Castiel's expression darkens. "He was far from innocent."
"So you decided to just…kill him?"
"Angels are agents of fate, Sam." Castiel lifts his chin, a faint fluttering sound vibrating near his shoulders, as if wings were settling back into place. "It was this man's fate to die." He looks down and tears another strip from his ruined shirt, carefully cleaning the blade of Ruby's knife before handing it back to Sam. "I'll dispose of the body. Wait for me in the next room; I don't much care for this one." With one last cursory glance around his former prison, the angel disappears along with Billy's body.
Dean paces the length of the adjacent office, counting in his head as he subconsciously opens and closes his fists. Twelve strides to the far wall, twelve strides back. (Idiot!) He makes a ninety-degree turn and paces the breadth of the confined space: ten strides to the wall, ten strides back. (Coulda been killed, or ra—)
"What?" he snaps.
Sam holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Dude, calm down. I'm sure there's some explanation for his behavior. I mean, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he had PTSD after what he's been through. Under the circumstances, you can't expect him to—you can't hold it against him."
Dean stops and stares at his brother. "What the hell are you talking about? Hold what against who?"
"Cas. Him killing that host guy—I can see it's upset you."
Dean huffs out a breath. "Uh, no, genius. That dude was real skeevy. I'm sure Cas killed him for a good reason."
"Yeah, maybe he did." Sam frowns, pushing his hair back from his eyes. "Uh, Dean, you think we were in time?" He wilts a little under his brother's incredulous glare. "No, I mean I know Cas is alive and all, but do you think we got here in time to stop Meg from—" he waves his hand uncomfortably.
"You're gonna make me say it, aren't you? Look, you saw what I saw. I've never seen Cas so…I mean, I've never seen him without his coats, except Jimmy that one time. And then his shirt: there's barely anything left of it, and his belt was unbuckled—" He stops as Dean whirls on him, green eyes bright with rage.
"You're asking the wrong person, Sam. If you're so curious as to whether Cas was raped, why don't you ask him?"
Both brothers startle at Castiel's sudden appearance. Sam flushes red up to his hairline, while Dean pales, his jaw tightening.
Castiel stands in the middle of the room, his hands hanging loosely in his usual awkward way. "To be precise, I wasn't raped if you define the term to mean the insertion of an object, usually the rapist's penis, into an orifice of my—"
"Yeah, yeah, we get it!" snaps Dean. "You don't need to go into detail."
Sam glares at Dean, then turns a sympathetic gaze on Castiel. "Listen, Cas, if you want to talk about it…"
Castiel shrugs. "Not really." His gaze sharpens. "What interests me is how you knew to break the bloodiron cuffs with your own blood."
Both Sam and Dean look uncomfortable. "Um, we didn't find out about your situation until this morning," Sam explains. "It took us a few hours to drive out here, so during that time, we brainstormed about what could possibly trap an angel—other than another angel, of course. There had to be blood sigils, but those would just hold you in one location. Since you hadn't called, we figured you had to be rendered powerless, which means—"
"Bloodiron is forged in Hell," Dean said in a tight voice. "Demon blood is used to make it, and only demon blood can break it."
Castiel turns a wondering gaze on Dean, who stares back for long moments before he drops his gaze to the floor.
Sam clears his throat. "Anyway, I know I went through detox, but we figured maybe there were enough traces left in me to be able to break bloodiron bindings." He smiles a bitter smile. "Something good ought to come out of Famine screwing around with me."
Castiel is still staring at Dean. "You risked your brother for my sake."
Dean kicks irritably at the floor. "Yeah. Woulda been nice if I didn't have to."
"Hey, I've got free will here, guys. I would've done it for you anyway, Cas."
"Thank you, Sam." Castiel looks up at Sam. "About the exorcism—I didn't know that you could throw your voice."
Sam grins. "I can't. Actually, that was Dean's idea as well. We stopped at a computer store and bought some blutooth speakers, then I recorded the exorcism on my computer and patched it through to the speakers. We figured that if it were demons that had you, they'd try to keep us from saying the exorcism ritual. So I hid the speakers in close proximity to the room you were in, and boom! Instant exorcism despite numerous attempts to wipe out the source."
Castiel's eyes are slightly glazed from the tech speak, but he nods graciously, anyway. "Very clever, Sam…and Dean."
"Guess somebody had to pick up the slack in the brains department, since you sure didn't!"
Sam looks briefly shocked, while Castiel stiffens and fixes his gaze on the far wall.
The 'soldier getting dressed down' look again, Dean thinks bitterly, and all due to him, of course. But he can't seem to stop what he's doing. If he knew what this feeling was—this raw, twisting snarl of emotions that sets his teeth on edge and the tiny hairs on his arms on end—he'd name it and be done with it. But he doesn't, so he isn't. Done with it. Done with anything.
"Uh." Sam interposes his giant self between Dean and Castiel in a hopeless attempt to curtail the skyrocketing tension in the room. "Guess we better go home now, before anything else happens. Guys?"
Dean holds up a hand without shifting his eyes from Castiel's grim stance. "Sam, go back to the car and wait for us there. I need a moment with Cas."
Sam grabs the upraised hand, using it to drag Dean a short distance away from Castiel. "Dude. Not a good idea."
"What's not a good idea, Sasquatch? Other than you laying on hands, which, I'm gonna be honest, is crossing the line."
"Crossing the line?" Sam hisses in a not-so-quiet whisper. "I'll tell you what's crossing the line! Hitting the angel, for one."
"I'm not gonna hit the angel."
"Oh yeah? From here, it looks like you got your smite on. And I have to tell you, whatever bug may be up your ass, it's not a good idea to smite someone who can smite back ten times as hard."
"I'm not gonna smite anyone. Except you, maybe, if you don't get your ass out to the car. Now."
Sam exhales a loud, angry breath, but Dean can tell he's already won. The "Do not fuck with the older brother" tone always wins. Except for that one time. And that other one.
"Fine," Sam huffs and raises his voice so Castiel can hear. "I'll give you five minutes, but that's it. House rules: no pinching, biting, kicking, eye-gouging, nose-twisting, or hair-pulling. Cas, you and me are good at the moment, but I'm giving you fair warning: if you kill Dean, we're going to have problems, got it?"
Castiel lifts his gaze and looks at Sam as if he had just turned purple and sprouted two extra heads. "Why would I kill Dean?"
"Because he's capable of being the king dick to out-dick all dicks in Dickland, and when he's in the mood he's in right now, he'll make homicidal thoughts cross your mind more than once, trust me."
"Hey!" Dean gives his brother the one-finger salute. "Back to the car, bitch. And I don't want to see your mug for the next ten minutes."
"Eight, and that's final."
"I'm setting my watch now," Sam warns, and with one last worried glance at them, leaves the room.
Dean's got to give props to Sam for diffusing the tension somewhat (and he knows that was what Sam was aiming to do with his 'house rules' schtick, 'cause he may not be a college grad but he's not exactly stupid), but it just takes one look at Castiel, and all the twisty, snarly, raging feelings are back, roiling through his body until he can barely breathe.
Because what he's seeing is wrong, a twenty on a one-to-ten scale of wrongness, and that's saying a lot, especially coming from him. The typical crap in his life—wendigos, rugarus, ghouls—that would send the average civilian screaming for his Mommy isn't even a blip on the wrongness chart compared to the expanse of pale (pristine) skin exposed (cover him up) to view beneath the torn white shirt, with purplish bruises (bitemarks!) staining (defiling) the (his!) angel.
"Damn it, Cas," and he gives himself points for the tight control of his voice, when all he wants to do is howl in outrage, "what did I tell you about going off on your own?"
Castiel narrows his eyes. "When?"
"When? When? All the fucking time, that's when! How many people do I gotta lose before you get it through your thick skull that we don't leave each other alone to confront evil shithead bastards! Didn't you learn anything when Ellen and Jo died?"
Castiel draws himself up, mouth tightening as he glares past Dean's left shoulder. "I apologized months ago for leaving them alone. There's nothing I can do to make further amends for their deaths."
"Fucking hell, Cas, I'm not blaming you for that again! I'm talking about you—you could've been the one that died when Lucifer trapped you in the fire circle. You could've died at Meg's hands back then! I gave you credit for having more sense than to run right back into the claws of that hellbitch first chance you got!"
"I didn't seek her out." Castiel's tone is defensive, although his posture relaxes slightly. "I didn't know who set the trap, only that the trap existed. I hoped to spring it before you and Sam became caught up in it."
Dean turns and paces away from Castiel, taking deep breaths, counting to ten, calling on every fiber of self-control John had ever instilled in him. His fingernails bite into his palms as he clenches his fists, but he figures he's finally calm enough to face Cas again. "See, that's your problem right there. You should've let me and Sam know. We would've gone with you to spring the trap, and none of this would've happened."
Castiel shakes his head. "I couldn't risk it. You are too valuable. I, on the other hand, am expendable."
Almost before he realizes it, Dean explodes into furious motion, grabbing the edges of Castiel's shirt and propelling him backwards until he slams against the wall. Dean curls his fingers into the torn material (don't touch), leaning in until they're almost nose-to-nose (don't touch), and snarls into Castiel's startled face. "Not expendable! Not expendable! Where the fuck do you get—how can you—what makes you—" And he's not making any sense, he knows he's not, but he can't seem to stop raging long enough to form a coherent sentence.
So he shouldn't be surprised when Castiel's eyes widen in confusion (endless, eternal blue), and his mouth opens (lips part) as if to ask Dean what he thinks he's doing, and Dean doesn't want to hear it (shut up!), wants to stop the words (his mouth) until he figures out what the hell is this feeling (fury, frustration, don't touch!), but the feeling is expanding, clamoring, roaring (don't they dare touch, don't anyone dare touch what is mine!), until his last scraps of sanity shred under the force of it, and his mouth crashes down on Castiel's.
This is no kiss—it's nothing like a kiss: too violent, too needy, so frenzied that Dean can barely feel Castiel's lips beneath his, doesn't know if he's responding and doesn't care, because all that matters in this one moment is that he finally stakes his claim (mine!) and lays down the law (you don't get to die!).
The next moment, he's flying backward until he impacts the opposite wall with a force that drives all the air out of his lungs in a breathless whoosh. Yet there's no pain, and he vaguely wonders why as he struggles for air, plaster dust raining down from the ceiling to land in his and Castiel's hair. Yeah, Castiel is still only two inches from his face, and it isn't until he feels the angel's arms sliding out from behind his back that he realizes Castiel had cushioned the impact, made it enough to stun but not enough to break him.
Though why he bothered is the question, because the expression on Castiel's face is awfully close to "I will throw you back into Hell" mode, and his hands are now effortlessly pinning Dean's shoulders to the wall. It flashes across Dean's muddled thoughts that he's about to find out what a good old-fashioned angelic smiting feels like.
"You forget what I am," Castiel growls, and damn if that voice doesn't travel all the way down Dean's spine, making him shudder (tremble) in fear (no, not exactly fear). "I will not be toyed with."
Dean manages to suck a half-breath into his lungs. "Cas, I didn't mean to—" Didn't mean to what? Assault an angel of the Lord who had just been assaulted by a filthy bitch-freak demon? Because the last he knew, shoving your tongue into someone's mouth without prior permission pretty much fits the dictionary definition of assault, and…fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He takes back what he said about not being stupid, because it's pretty fucking obvious that he fell out of the proverbial Stupid tree, hitting every stupid branch on the way down, then got beaten with the stupid stick when he hit bottom. Nice job, Winchester, traumatizing an already traumatized assault victim.
"I'm not…traumatized. The experience with the demon wasn't pleasant, but it's over. What I don't understand is…" Castiel lifts his chin and narrows his eyes, searching Dean's gaze for a few heartbeats.
It takes everything Dean has to man up and meet that piercing, soul-searching stare. He can't even bring himself to complain about the mind-reading but instead, vaguely wishes Cas luck, because even he can't figure out what he's thinking at the moment. There's shame, of course, and apology, but also a churning mixture of incoherent urges (and a small, unsuccessfully repressed whisper of 'mine').
Castiel pulls back suddenly, his eyes widening, and…fuck, Dean's really done it now. He closes his eyes, because he doesn't want to see the moment when Cas decides smiting is the only solution to this fucked-up situation. Somewhere in the deep recesses of Dean's brain, a tiny voice of rationality begs to know just when he acquired the suicidal urge to lay claim to an angel. Because although 'Deathwishes R Us' is the Winchester family motto, at this particular moment, he really doesn't want to die.
In fact, for the first time in weeks, definitely for the first time since Famine rode into that doomed town, Dean feels alive. More than alive—he feels hyperalive, his skin prickling as if tendrils of electricity are racing up and down his arms, the fine hairs on his body standing on end, and, oh yeah…that. Maybe not the best time for it (definitely not the best time), but it's been so damn long since anything stirred down there that he can't pull his thoughts together enough to wish it away.
"Cas," he whispers, but Castiel just pushes him back against the wall, and (oh, God) presses the length of his body against Dean's, as if to hold him in place.
"You need to understand," he growls (and damn, where did the angel learn to sound so seductive?), "exactly what you're asking for. I may not be what I once was, but I'm still the one who pulled you from Perdition."
"I know, Cas, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" Dean is shoved harder against the wall. (Okay, got the message; stopping with the babbling now.)
"You make me feel things…you make me understand what it means to covet. But I have no experience of having. If you teach me that—if you mean for us to travel that road together, there will be no turning back. Do you understand?"
"Yeah," and oh, God, he has no dignity left, because his knees weaken, and he's pleading these broken little pleas, like "Cas" and "please" and "need you," and if Cas weren't holding him up, he'd be sprawled in a pathetic little heap on the floor.
But Cas is holding him up, and his mouth is so close, his breath gusting warm against Dean's lips, and he's moving, a slow, seductive roll of his pelvis against Dean's, (and oh, God, is that…is he hard?). Suddenly it wells up in him, this tidal wave of feeling (feeling Cas hard against his own hardness), and he wants, no, he has (mine!), and the having is so good, so sweet, (stroking him in the perfect way), and it's rapture and intoxication, and the world shivers, then turns inside-out—
And he's clinging to Cas's shoulders now, hips jerking and stuttering as he cries out in helpless ecstasy, (the angel whispering, 'Yes, Dean…yes', in his hair).
He comes down slowly, feeling those arms holding him with both gentleness and strength, provoking a vague memory of an earlier time (but it was light, wasn't it? And he was light but tinged with darkness and blood, and Castiel carried him, held him close until they were both bright and shining, and healed and safe), and although he's not really sure what it means, he still rests his head against his angel's, safe in his arms (once more).
Seconds tick by, and his life slowly comes back into focus: Cas's warm breath against his cheek, the cool air of the room, and the dampness—
"Dude!" he pulls back abruptly from Castiel, knocking the back of his head against the wall. "Did I just—?"
"In my jeans?"
Dean narrows his eyes at the touch of smugness in the angel's voice. "But you didn't—"
"I can wait."
"Yeah, no." And he's reaching for the front of Cas's trousers, because damn it, he's not the type of guy who leaves his partners in the lurch (and this has nothing to do at all with the fact that he wants to touch Cas, to know him, to feel the lines of—)
Castiel steps back, gently pushing Dean's hand away. "I can wait. Sam is approximately thirty seconds away from bursting back into this room."
"Oh, shit, Sam!" Dean didn't think he would ever forget the existence of his little brother, but the past few minutes with Cas—well, there's only one thing he can say. "Listen, since we only have like twenty seconds ETA Emo-Ginormotron, followed by a seven hour drive back to Bobby's, all three of us singing 'The Wheels on the Bus' or some shit like that, I'm pinning you down now for an appointment. Right after everything gets settled at Bobby's, and Sasquatch goes down for a nap, it's you and me out by the Impala. We're gonna take a drive, 'cause I know a place."
Castiel wrinkles his brow. "Another drive?" he protests, then curves his lips in a slow smile.
"Yeah, smartass, another drive! Now stop yanking my chain, before I—"
"Dean!" Sam knocks the door open. "Are you guys—is everything okay?"
"Yeah." Dean nonchalantly tugs his jacket closed. "Everything's cool. Why wouldn't it be?" He strides past his little brother, Castiel falling into step behind him, as usual.
"Well, you didn't come out to the car, and I started to think— Hey, guys, wait up!"
They finally make it out to the Impala, and Castiel slides easily into the backseat. Dean tugs uncomfortably at his jeans as Sam takes shotgun. As Dean starts digging for his AC/DC tape, Sam frowns, sniffs, then gets a puzzled look on his face, quickly replaced with a look of horrified concern. He presses an elbow into Dean's side and cuts a significant glance toward the back seat. "Dude," he whispers. "Is he…?"
"He's fine, Sam. He's fine, I'm fine, you're fine, and it's a great night for a drive. So shut your cakehole and pop in the tape." Dean revs his baby as Sam makes Bitchface #16 but does as told.
And yeah, if Dean were truly a conscientious brother, he'd sit Sam down and explain about him and Cas…
Grinning into the rearview mirror, he's pleased to see Cas's eyes tilt upward in his version of an answering smile. Dean revs his baby one more time and sends them roaring off into the night.
(4-15-10) Thank you all for following this story to its end; I appreciate it! Now for some additional notes:
Thanks and acknowledgments go to the Supernatural Wiki, contributor RaeSofSunshine, for the exorcism rite.
Also, just as an aside, I'd like to say that I hadn't seen the previews for this coming week's episode 5x18 before I'd written the ending scene between Dean and Cas about 3 weeks ago. Yes, I write piecemeal, usually writing the final scene right after the first chapter; I'm weird that way. Anyway, when I saw the pivotal Dean/Cas scene in the upcoming show, I had a lot of squee to suppress. ^__^
Finally, this story has ended up landing in the "Thousand Small Cruelties" universe. It was subtext in the back of my mind, but this chapter pulled the subtext into text (Dean and Cas talking about Ellen and Jo's deaths), so I thought I'd explain that odd, non-canonical reference.
Thanks again; it's been a real pleasure interacting with all of you!